


Will-o'-wisp Wakerife

by MagitekUnit05953234



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Coping, Ghosts, M/M, Mentioned Gladiolus Amicitia, Mentioned Noctis Lucis Caelum, Post-Altissia, he's trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 20:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16182452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagitekUnit05953234/pseuds/MagitekUnit05953234
Summary: Out of nowhere, the darkness enveloping Ignis gave way to brilliant, refulgent blue. If Ignis were of the mind to joke, he would have called it blinding.





	Will-o'-wisp Wakerife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "old ghosts" from Tumblr user raneam-o1's gothic prompt list.

Ignis sees them in the corner of his vision —if he can be said to have such a thing these days. Vague silhouettes linger on the edges of Ignis’s awareness, blue and ethereal. It seems as if one keeps coming closer moment by moment, and Ignis hates to think of hat will happen when it reaches him. He knows what he saw on the altar. He knows what they ~~did~~ will do to Noctis.

Noctis hasn’t woken up yet. A week is nothing compared to the month he spent comatose after the Mariloth attack when he was eight, but it’s still unnerving.

Ignis can’t bring himself to sit beside his beloved. Not yet.

There’s a burst of blue to Ignis’s left, and he steps to the right out of an illogical self-preservation instinct. He can't see any real danger that’s coming toward him, but he reacts anyway.

Ignis stubs his toe on the chair that had apparently been sitting to his right. He curses under his breath and resolves to wear shoes as much as possible, even if he hasn't left his room yet.

Ignis decides to just bite the bullet and get dressed. It's a struggle to dress by touch, but as much as Ignis wishes he could sit in bed in his sleepclothes, it’s unseemly to do so while wearing shoes. Ignis is going to wear his shoes.

It takes Ignis considerable effort to summon his bag from the arsenal. He isn't sure yet if it's a product of his own weakness or of Noctis's injury. Ignis hopes for and detests the idea of the former. The latter is unthinkable. Noctis can’t be hurt so badly to weaken his connection to the Crystal. He can’t. Not after all Ignis did—

It takes Ignis too long to find anything he can put on without a hassle. Anything with buttons is a task and a half all on its own even without considering how to match the often intricate prints to pants Ignis can’t really picture in his mind’s eye. He finds a shirt he knows by its softness, grey and short-sleeved, and pulls it on over an undershirt that is probably black but could be white. Ignis does have two white undershirts, identical to the others in all but color.

Ignis has to sit down and take a moment after he puts his foot through the wrong pant leg twice over. The edges of his darkness swim with crystalline blue.

Another three days go by before Noctis begins to stir, and Ignis knows the moment it happens. He had been laying awake for a while, one arm over his eyes, trying to block out the pain in his _facearmlefthandeverythingburning_. Out of nowhere, the darkness enveloping Ignis gave way to brilliant, refulgent blue. If Ignis were of the mind to joke, he would have called it _blinding._

It’s not the light that confirms Noctis’s slow slide toward wakefulness— it’s the _voices_. Clamoring, yelling, a rising din that Ignis can’t muffle even as he claps his hands over his ears to try. One voice rings out over the others.

_My son._

Ignis tumbles out from beneath his covers, his previous agony a dull roar behind the chaos now lacing through his skull. Bursts of light and sound assault Ignis, and he has to remind himself every moment that none of it is real just to convince himself to move. It’s almost like the migraines Ignis suffered as a young child, but worse. Much worse.

“Leave me,” Ignis grits out behind clenched teeth, scrambling to find his Crownsguard uniform. He had Gladio lay it out for him the day before, and Ignis could have sworn it was on the nightstand to the right of the bed.

Damn.

Must have been the left.

Ignis hasn’t been into Noctis's room yet, but he’s stood outside of it often enough in the past ten days, trying to work up the nerve to face the prince he failed. The man Ignis loves above all else.

Ignis stands in front of the door now and adjusts his sleeves.

The moment Ignis’s hand touches the doorknob the world turns dark and quiet once more. The voices all stop at once, and Ignis could cry from relief. Before he could give in to such an impulse, standing here outside of the door of someone who needs him, a single figure rises before Ignis. The specter is cloaked in armor and glowing, resplendent, casting off so much power it’s nearly tangible. It's the same ghost that has been haunting the corners of Ignis’s sight since he woke up burned and blind, more than any of the others.

“Your Majesty,” Ignis murmurs. He inclines his head, bowing as lightly as he can without being disrespectful. He doesn't know if Gladio is awake yet, and doesn’t want to be found paying royal respects to a battered wooden slab with hinges.

 _Ignis_ , King Regis reaches out, but stops just short of resting his hand on Ignis’s shoulder. _I’m sorry_.

Ignis doesn't know what to say.

King Regis just stands, towering over Ignis, silent. He is the only thing Ignis can see. Perhaps he is the only thing Ignis will ever see again.

_Take care of my son. Please._

There is nothing else Ignis would rather do. Nothing he could live with himself doing.

He reaches out into the void and opens the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter [@compromisedunit](https://mobile.twitter.com/compromisedunit)!


End file.
